Through the Looking Glass
by Jaden Anderson
Summary: The Eluvian holds many secrets. For Rheissa Amell, it is a portal to a new life in a place where mages are not cursed, a place where magic is revered and griffons still exist. With it comes a second chance to reunite with her love—the man who sacrificed himself to slay the archdemon, so that she may live.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Through the Looking Glass (credit is given to the actual novel Through the Looking Glass)

Characters: Alistair, Amell, and co.

Author's Note: This is a re-post of a previous story I had written. After some requests, I have decided to edit and bring it back. I hope you enjoy it once again. It was originally in present tense, but I've decided to change it to past, so there are differences.

* * *

Chapter 1

Rheissa Amell woke with a stuttered gasp.

Images plagued her mind, replaying again and again. She could still smell the blood, hear the shrieks, taste the fire and ash_. _Panic rose in her throat and fell from her lips in a whimpered cry. She didn't want to remember or feel anymore.

She pulled her legs into her chest, her cold fingers trembling against her knees. It shouldn't have affected her like this anymore, yet every night was the same—tormented by events of which she had no control.

It would pass; it always did. Though, not without leaving her a bit more broken than before. Anders could only heal so much—not that she was physically ill. Her malady was one of the heart, but unfortunately, those did not heal quite so quickly.

Only when she stopped shivering did she release her knees and let her gaze drift up toward the heavens, her thoughts all for _him_. It was the happier memories that she wanted. The ones that reminded her of how it felt to be loved and cherished by another, rather than wasting away in a world that was cold and empty without him.

"Rhei?" A sleepy voice rose behind her. _Anders_. Their shared bedroll shifted, and his gentle hand grazed down the length of her back. "Another bad dream?"

Her eyes slipped shut and the muscles in her jaw twitched. _Bad dreams_ sounded so childish; nightmare was not apt enough. The fade was a mysterious place, one that forced people to relive certain events. More than once, she'd woken there, and wondered if she would be trapped again, at the behest of some demon. Then Alistair would appear, as he always did, standing before her with his devastatingly handsome smile, gleaming in his regal armor with his sword resting over his shoulder—

And then she'd wake, her heart pounding in her throat.

Why couldn't she stay _there?_

Why couldn't he come _here?_

She understood the reasons. A Grey Warden must be the one to sacrifice themselves to ensure the old god's soul was destroyed permanently. Upon learning that lovely bit of information, she'd wished Loghain was alive so she could kill him again. He was the one responsible for the order's decimation. He was the one that had chosen to turn his back on king and country, and allowed the darkspawn to rip them to shreds. He was the ultimate reason this country had been left with _three_ Grey Wardens to deal with an archdemon and its armies. And though he wasn't the reason Riordan had failed, she still held that against him as well. Why not, he was dead. Who better to blame than a man that could not defend himself.

"Rhei?" Anders whispered again, his fingers resting against the crook of her hip. It was nothing more than a friendly gesture, amassed over a lifetime's friendship.

She let slip a sigh, her body finally softening into her bedroll. "Yes," she whispered.

"The same dream?"

She nodded. Always the same. Blinking away tears, her head rolled over her threadbare pillow, away from Anders' inquisitive stare. "I'm fine," she murmured.

"No, you're not," he sighed. "It's perfectly acceptable to feel pain, Rhei. It hasn't even been a year yet."

Anger colored her cheeks, her fingers twisting into her blankets. Was that her limit? After one year, was she simply supposed to wake up one morning, filled with happiness? Just like that? Or perhaps, after a year, the memories would simply fade away; a fear that kept her awake more nights than her dreams. The fear of forgetting his smile, or the last words he'd spoken to her, was far more terrifying than remembering. She needed balance, something that was hardly manageable on the best of days.

"It was a very traumatic—"

"Shut it," she hissed in a tone quite unlike her. Anders fell silent, his fingers tensing against her hips. "I'm not in the mood to be lectured."

Daring a quick glance, she found him watching her with an arched brow, his lips curled with some form of amusement. Setting her jaw, she took in a deep breath, well aware that beating him senseless wouldn't help.

"Not a lecture, Rhei. Just words between friends—"

"Then, as my friend—stop."

It was hard enough being in her own head, constantly haunted by the thought of Alistair. He was all she'd been able to think about when he was alive. Somehow, his death made it worse. Discussing him with Anders bordered inhumane.

"It won't end until you make your peace," were his final words on the subject.

Flopping onto her side, Rheissa stretched out her cramped legs, allowing Anders a moment to slide in next to her. It had taken a great deal of time for her to become comfortable enough to allow any man in her bed, even one that was just her friend. The warmth of him against her back was reassuring, but it would never compare with what she'd had.

Her gaze wandered out into the night, eyes narrowing when she caught sight of something strange. In the short distance, a faded outline lingered at the edge of the boneyard. And if Rheissa wasn't mistaken, staring directly at her.

She jerked off the bedroll, peering into the darkness.

Yelping, Anders jumped up beside her. "What is it?"

Her hooded eyes widened. "Are you serious? Don't you see her?"

His own narrowed in an attempt to see through the heavy press of darkness. "See who?"

Rheissa knew _exactly_ who it was, but it wasn't possible. She was dead, her bones long since lost to the earth. An apparition, perhaps? And how fitting that it would appear in a wasteland of dragon bones.

"It's Flemeth," she whispered back.

Anders let out a breathless laugh before answering in a low voice. "Flemeth? Really, Rhei? Maybe you should just leave your nightmares to the Fade." He dropped back down to his bedroll, still chuckling under his breath.

Rhei couldn't look away. The witch held her gaze, her shadowed lips twisting before she slowly vanished into the thick shadows pressing against her back. Cursing under her breath, Rhei stooped down and swept up her staff. There was no way she would be able to sleep with Flemeth out there, lingering in the night. And if Rhei had learned anything from Morrigan, it was never make a witch angry. Kill her, or leave her in peace. Rhei had thought she'd succeeded in killing her, but if she was actually seeing what she thought she was, then it was possible that she'd broken that cardinal rule and enraged the Witch of the Wilds.

Slowly stepping over Anders, she began in the direction that Flemeth had vanished from.

"Rheissa!" Anders growled, grumbling as he shot back to his feet. "You can't seriously be about to wander off into the wastelands after some imaginary shadow!"

"Shows what you know," Rhei whispered quietly. She knew exactly who and _what_ Flemeth was. And if the witch had come to seek her out, Rhei also knew the witch wouldn't leave until the deed was finished.

"Rhei!" he snapped. "At least wake the others before you go tromping off!"

Fingers tightening around her staff, Rhei threw him an anxious glance. "Are you coming, or not?"

Annoyed curses found their way to her ears as he staggered around in an attempt to lace up his boots and throw on his jacket. Neither of their other companions had so much as twitched in their sleep, completely unaware of the brewing situation.

Finally, with a terse gaze and taut jaw, he marched the distance toward her, his staff gripped between his fingers. If it actually was Flemeth, their magic would be useless, but she wasn't so cruel as to kill his hope.

* * *

A mass of bleached bone lay in a jumbled pile. Rhei studied the heap, her stomach clenching as she measured the size. Bones that thick… this beast could have easily been a match for the archdemon. Knowing there were others out there sickened her.

"So, you came," a chortling voice breathed in her ear. Rheissa jumped, her skin crawling as she crept away from the woman. "I was unsure if you would."

"So, _you're_ here," Rhei retorted, her fingers twitching at her side as she struggled against the sudden urge to grab her staff. It was pointless to draw it. If Flemeth still lived, even after the events that had unfolded at her hut almost a year ago, two mages would have little effect on her.

Movement drew Rhei's gaze to a startled Anders, now standing rigid at her side. Flustered, his eyes swung between the two of him, his mouth gaping. Meeting the Witch of the Wilds was always a chilling event, particularly when she was supposed to be dead.

"I see death didn't take well to you," Rhei continued, appeased when the witch's flaxen eyes flashed with amusement.

"It never does," she snickered. "Many have tried, all have failed. My sweet Morrigan should have known better."

"So, next time salt the earth. Got it." Rheissa deadpanned, hoping to hide the fear that had her pulse hammering.

Flemeth's keen eyes snapped to Anders, her lips curling wickedly. "Handsome, though not quite so much as your prince." A cold hand seized Rhei's heart, her breath rushing past her lips. "There was something to that lad's face—he was earnest. This one would betray you for as little as a hot meal or warm bed."

"Hey!" Anders groused, his voice darkening with a shot of anger.

Rhei slung an arm around his waist, drawing him back before he instigated the witch further.

"So protective!" Flemeth cackled, delight warming her face for a mere moment before turning as cold as the wintry night. "Leave us."

"If you think—"

"It's all right, Anders," Rhei said softly. "If she simply wanted me dead, she would have done so already."

"How wise." The witch laughed.

Patting his side, she offered him a comforting smile. "Just go, I'll be fine."

Flemeth continued to pace slow circles around Rhei, silently waiting for Anders to wander off. Her lips tugged at the corners, her eyes alight with peril. The years appeared to have melted away from her, leaving behind the beauty bards still sung tales about. There remained hints of the hag Rhei had first met in the small lines creasing her eyes and mouth, but the wrinkles seemed to have smoothed out, and her skin softened.

"You have aged since we last spoke," Flemeth stated cruelly.

Rhei choked back a shocked laugh. "And you haven't. Instead of trading pitiful insults though, how about we simply get down to business."

"That wasn't an insult, girl," Flemeth said. "Simply an observation, and I was not referring to your appearance."

Unwilling to discuss her troubles, Rhei lifted a shoulder.

"Very well," Flemeth conceded. "I seem to recall having saved your life once." Her steps carried her away from Rhei, over to the pile of bone. "I've come for payment."

"Payment," Rhei repeated.

"I also recall you attempting to kill me not long after I saved your life. I do believe you owe me."

To that, Rhei held her silence. What was she to say? _Sorry? Your daughter assured me you would, in fact, die?_

"My Morrigan has vanished," Flemeth continued. "I wish for you to find her for me."

Rhei cracked a grin. "What can't _you _find her?"

The witch threw a glare over her shoulder, her tawny eyes flashing with contempt. "I am needed here. You will do it."

"I will?" Rhei scoffed. "Perhaps you've forgotten, but I'm a Grey Warden—Commander of the Grey, no less. I can't just pick up and go hunting for your daughter when I doubt she can even be found."

"Oh." Darkness tinged Flemeth's laughter. "My Morrigan can be found, if one knows where to look."

An exasperated sigh blew past Rhei's lips. "If one knew where to look, things wouldn't be lost."

Flemeth's responding cackle was loud, and startled Rhei back a step. "How true. Let me be clear with you, Warden. You find my Morrigan and I shall strive to forget that you attempted to kill me. We both know that you wish to find her. She knows rituals she should not, knowledge gained through you."

Rheissa's mood darkened. She knew the ritual Flemeth spoke of. The one that Rhei had kept from the other wardens. The thought of a child being born with the soul of an old god had appalled both her and Alistair. Often, Rhei had thought of following after her so-called friend, to ensure that she never attempted such dark magics. They were once companions; there was a slight chance the woman would listen.

"Should your order realize all that _you_ know on such matters…" Flemeth let her silence trail into silence.

"So, it comes to that? Really, Flemeth, blackmail?" Why she'd even bothered attempting to argue with Flemeth, Rhei didn't know. What the witch wanted, she got. "Where exactly do you want me to look?"

Flemeth's final cackle sent a shiver down Rhei's spine. Clawed fingers curved around her upper arm, dragging her away from the bones. "Right here, girl."

* * *

"You _cannot_ be serious," Rhei's words ended in a groan as her tapered eyes rose to the pointed arch. Two warrior statues stood guard on either side of the rippling glass, their blades held to the ground, though the image still gave off one of protection and defense.

"My Morrigan knows her lore," Flemeth jeered, her tone dripping with pleasure.

"I can't just walk in there!" Rhei hissed. Morrigan wasn't the only one who knew the lore of the Tevinter mirrors. Unstable magic, that was all any of them actually knew. "If Morrigan went through there, that's between the two of you. There's _no way_ I'm as foolish as that."

"Is it foolishness?" the witch questioned. "Tis merely braving the unknown. Very few understand what lies on the other side. Those that do are simply taking advantage of their knowledge."'

Rhei wrenched back on her arm, freeing it from witch's firm grasp. "And I take it you and Morrigan both know what lies beyond?"

"My eyes see more realms than this one."

There was something about that simple sentence—something that chilled Rhei's blood. _Realms_, what in the Maker's name did that even mean? "Then _you_ go after her! If you know where she is…"

Flemeth returned to pacing, her fingers caressing everything in her path as though she longed to touch. "Ah, my Morrigan has found a way to hide from my sights."

"Then you don't _actually_ know she's in there."

"Oh, I know." Her slow steps carried her up the marbled staircase to the Eluvian.

Magic spiked the air as Flemeth grazed the planes of the mirror. It rippled like water around a pebble, and within Rhei caught sight of a long, dark road, leading into darkness.

"No," she stated grimly, shaking her head. "This is mad. I haven't even told my people what you want. They don't know that I'll be gone—"

"Let me take care of your man," Flemeth stated.

Rhei gnashed her teeth. Anders was _not_ her man. "The answer is still no. I cannot abandon the order. Maybe you know what lies beyond, but I don't."

"Then," Flemeth grinned as she reached down and clasped Rhei's arms. The tug was firm and nearly sent her sprawling into the fine-grained marble. Flemeth's strong hands were all that steadied her, before they shoved her through the looking glass. "Time to learn to fly, little griffon."

Flemeth's words and the echo of her laughter haunted Rhei. She was given a moment to inspect the shadows before the air began to move around her. Her gasp was deafening when she suddenly began to fall into _nothing_—a lurid emptiness that surrounded her. Wind whistled in her ears and her arms flailed by her sides as she struggled to find purchase. To scream was pointless, yet Rheissa couldn't bite it back, her own voice chasing her into oblivion.

She was given a brief moment to swear true death upon the Witch of the Wilds once and for all, before the abyss swallowed her whole.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Rheissa jerked awake.

Every inch of her body ached, though she couldn't quite remember why. She'd had a dream—something with Alistair, dead. Then… _nothing_. The memories were there, but hidden behind a thick, impenetrable haze. Spinning… falling… and hysterical laughter echoed in her head.

Sighing, she shifted, her fingers scraping against loose loam before she moved her head and rested her cheek against the damp earth. For the first time in longer than she liked, everything was quiet. Though throbbing, her body was still and the world hushed. She hadn't felt such peace since… ever. Even in the circle tower, there had always been something. Maleficarum, apostates, templars, nothing was ever at peace. And as a Grey Warden, there was always this perpetual _hum_ beating beneath her breast, reminding her that the darkspawn were _everywhere_. But for once… there were no irritating whispers, no toneless music, just… _nothing_. She felt weightless—she'd never realized how much burden she carried.

To feel such quiet was strange. Which begged the question, where was she?

Last she remembered, she and her companions had been trudging through the Blackmarsh, in search of another warden, Kristoff. Only, there'd been no sun there; it was a desolate place, overrun by the wilds.

Rheissa finally drew in a ragged breath and pushed wearily to her knees before sagging back on her haunches. Exhaustion had her head hanging low as she rolled out her neck. It felt as though she'd gone a round or three with a blighted ogre; every knotted muscle protested her movements.

Rubbing her shoulders, she dampened her lips before glancing around for her mabari. "Crunch?"

She waited for the hurried gallop of her mabari, but there were no howls, barks, or worse, his rank tongue lapping up the side of her face.

"Crunch?" she called, her voice rising.

A heavy weight settled above her head. Never in their time together could she recall him ignoring one of her calls. Where in the Maker was he?

"Crunch!" Panicked, her voice wavered as she shot to her feet, pain rippling through her body. Her gaze darted in and out of the trees, searching for her loveable ball of brown fur, loping aimlessly through the woods, too preoccupied with some creature to respond.

A fist closed over her heart and her throat tightened with fear. She was about to scream for him again when something rustled in the trees. The breath she'd been holding rushed past her lips as she moved closer, too relieved to be truly angry.

Branches snapped off to her right. Her steps quickened and she dropped to a crouch with her arms outstretched, awaiting the moment he barrelled into her arms.

Instead, something hard struck against her temple and pain lit within her head.

Cursing, Rheissa crumpled to the ground, her vision swaying as she stared up at the overhanging canopy.

"What are you doing!" a low voice hissed after something heavy dropped atop of her, forcing the air out of her lungs. "Move! Come on!"

Fingers clawed into her shoulders and yanked her back up. _Maker_, that had been one solid foot.

"Run!" he shouted.

The sheer terror in his voice eclipsed the fear that she was still missing her mabari, but her adrenaline sparked and she took chase after him. Her gaze flit over his the wide expanse of his back, watching as his arms pumped at his sides. There was something… familiar about the broad neck and lightly tinged hair. It was longer than she remembered, but the wave and texture were the same.

He threw a harried glance over his shoulder, his brows drawn down over his eyes.

"Cullen!" she cried out.

What in the name of Andraste was he doing out in the Blackmarsh? Had the templars sent another knight after Anders? And what was he running from?

Rheissa half-turned, her run shifting to a side-gallop, expecting to find them chased by an abomination, or, worse, darkspawn. Instead, two figures cleared the trees in pursuit. Her steps momentarily faltered when she caught sight of the golden armor wrapped around their lengths.

She must have hit her head—there was no other explanation for the sight before her, because streaming down the steel breastpieces was blood. And not from a wound, but from a half-slitted eye embossed in the center.

A firm hand locked onto her elbow and yanked her off-balance.

"Don't stop!" Cullen shouted.

But it was hard to turn away from that eye. She'd seen that symbol before—inscribed into seeker armor, though never had it wept blood before.

Lost to the artful curves, a sudden flash of lightning dashed into the ground next to her feet, jerking her focus back on hand. Yelping, she pivoted on her heel and kept pace with Cullen. They were mages! In Seeker armor?

Wide eyes flicked to hers, his face stark white and his breath haggard. "I've been running for days!" he wheezed between breaths.

_Days?_ And where were the rest of the templars? They rarely traveled in anything less than a horde. Cullen looked fit to collapse, his steps teetering as he wavered toward the nearby trees.

Days didn't work for her. She needed answers, and she needed them now. Seekers and templars seldom fought against one another, and being that she was a Grey Warden, perhaps she could put a stop to this with little bloodshed.

Fingers sparking at her sides, she called on her magic. It coursed through her veins, spindling uncontrollably with a strength she'd never felt before, and without a second thought, she guilelessly opened the floodgates. Her hands lit red and fire poured forth. Tongues of flame closed the distance between her and the mages, the grass igniting in a wash of heat, the mouth licking at the trees as it stretched forth to devour the sky.

Whatever it was she'd done, the two mages rocked to a sudden stop, their gazes turning as one toward her. It wasn't the fire they studied, but _her._ Confusion narrowed their eyes, their mouths falling open. Rheissa stole a glance back over her shoulder, her brows rising as she took in Cullen. He stood as still as stone, his face blanched and stark with fear.

"Cullen?" she whispered, her hand extending toward him.

As though she'd struck him, he recoiled; his brows vanished into the rumpled fringe of his hair. "Stay back!" he hissed, his scuffed heels digging into the earth as he scrambled backward.

Frowning, she dared a step closer, forgetting about the seekers. It seemed his newfound fear of mages had extended beyond the tower. She'd known his state had quickly been diminishing—after what those blood mages had done to him—and part of her wanted to understand. But, it was a year later… for him to react so strongly to a mage…

Her breath slipped past her lips. It was so much worse, to the point where he no longer seemed to recognize her.

"Cullen, it's me," she murmured. "Rheissa? Rheissa Amell? I won't hurt you, you know that." Her tone was one that she'd use on a child.

A vicious knot twisted his face—his eyes sparking with fury, mouth thinning down into a grim line. "I don't know you, witch!" he snarled.

Her eyes widened and she fell silent. Never in her life had she _ever_ been called that, and it stung like a sharp slap. Last word she'd received had informed her that Greagoir had transferred him to the Kirkwall circle, under the care of a different knight-commander. She meant to try again, to change her approach, remind him of the fleeting friendship they'd once had, before her life had taken a deplorable twist. Except, in that moment, she heard a bout of insults and exclamations flung over the fore. Oddly enough, they weren't directed at her, but rather the man cowering behind her.

The words that slithered from the mages' lips were foreign to her. _Tevinter?_ The words dissipated into the crackling fire before she could even begin to try and comprehend them. The mages' were enraged, and Rheissa was hardly given a moment to duck before a bolt of magic whipped past her.

Cullen's low shout jerked her eyes back to him to find him running again, though favoring his left leg. Regardless of his reaction, she rose slowly, her eyes narrowing on the two mages held at bay by the wall of flames. Let Cullen run, she could handle two mages. Their gazes shifted to hers, and both fell to a sudden standstill, their heads bowed.

Confusion awakened within her. It was almost respect they were showing, their balled fists pressing firmly against their chests; a salute of sorts shared by the templars. The hand at her side tightened, the flare of the fire dimming as she did. When it snuffed out in a final puff of smoke, they rushed forward and took a knee before her. A _knee_—before _her_.

"My lady!" the taller one breathed his excitement, his warmed fingers clutching at hers and drawing them to his dry lips. "How is this possible?"

She held her tongue in check, unsure of what exactly he was asking. What distressed her was the blood seeping around her steeled boots, staining them. And when the other noticed her pinched gaze, he gasped and drew them both back.

"Forgive us, my lady, we were careless."

Prostrating was something she hadn't been given yet grown accustomed to; the people of Ferelden often flocked to her side. She was, after all, their Hero, but it was never something she'd allowed herself to indulge in. This, however, felt different, more of a reverence than groveling.

Her chin jerked back over her shoulder, watching Cullen's shadow move through the trees. _Days_, he'd said, yet at the sight of her, they'd abandoned whatever quest they'd found in him to drop to their knees before her.

"Why were you chasing after that man?" she asked, her voice lilting gently—a trick she'd learned when handling nobles. Speak as though above them and they would answer as such.

The two shared a glance, one of confusion and consternation. The taller one turned his face up to her while the other returned to staring at her boots, ensuring the blood didn't touch her toes again. How... dedicated. And only slightly unnerving.

"He is a templar, my lady," he said as though that response was answer enough.

"Yes," she agreed.

"Should we continue after him?"

Her fingers closed into a fist. "Why?" she hissed. "So you can string him up in the courtyards for all to witness? What if he brings more templars back to hunt _you_ down instead?"

They shared that same look, one she was beginning to find tiresome.

When the shorter one nodded, the other pushed smoothly to his feet. "Are you feeling well, my lady? Perhaps we should take you to the magister? He will be overjoyed to see you alive and well again."

She startled and jerked her hand from his, lowering it to her side. Only then did she take notice of the steel strapped to her side, its energy encircling her waist as she drew on its power. _Spellweaver_, she remembered. That was why she'd had no staff upon waking. But the sword meant little compared the seekers' words, echoing in her ears. _Alive and well_. While that alone was cause for concern, she focused on the word _magister_. These mages had been speaking Tevinter, the language of the Imperium.

Which brought her full circle back to the question: where was she?

_Flemeth_, she realized with a painful lump in her chest. The Eluvian, falling, screaming… Flemeth had pushed her into the mirror in search of Morrigan. This was wherever the mirror led.

"Where are we?" she demanded, her eyes darting in wide arcs, studying every inch of the land. There had to be something familiar she could relate to. Some tiny nuance, but all she saw was trees, grass, and dirt—quite similar to where they'd made camp the night before.

"My lady?" they called to her, sharing another aggravating look. "We must insist you return with us. The magister must be made aware—"

Silencing them with a single look, she released the brunt of her glare upon them. "Answer my question."

"We are a day from Minrathous," one informed her. "So I must insist we begin now—"

_Minrathous_. There was absolutely no possible way she was following after them to meet some magister. She knew that word, the history of mages had taught her much. Blood magic. And here she stood before two mages with blood running down their armor. Their source of power, perhaps? Most mages abhorred blood magic, but there were always the few that reveled in it.

Shaking her head, she stole a step back, her hand darting out when they did the same.

"No," she snarled. "Do not follow." She wasn't sure if the command would be obeyed, but their steps stumbled as though her words alone had power over them.

"My lady!" they gasped, struggling against her order.

Turning, she darted in the direction of Cullen, hoping to put distance between her and the mages. They must have been lying, she couldn't possibly be a day's travel from Minrathous! Not last night, she'd been at least a month's travel away. Why would the mirror bring her here of all places? Flemeth could have simply sought Morrigan out in that case. But then she remembered—

_My eyes see more realms than this one._

As she ran, she thought on her lessons, on all the first enchanter had been willing to teach her. The mirrors were legendary, believed to give a person the ability to travel through realms. Though the mundane rarely thought about such things, those with magical blood knew their realm was not the only one. Dimensions of incomprehensible numbers existed, all pressing down on one another. The mirrors were old magic, but they'd thought the Dalish artifacts long lost. It seemed clear that the only way to find her way home was to locate Morrigan.

Rhei staggered to a stop in another small clearing, lifting her chin to the sky.

"Can you hear me, Flemeth?" she bellowed into the nothingness above. "When I find my way out of here, I _will_ find a way to kill you!"

An answer was given, though not one in the guise she'd been expecting.

"Shouting to yourself doesn't seem all that wise," a dark voice rose from behind a nearby tree. "Someone might wonder just who it is you're cursing up there."

She fell still. All she saw was a lump of a shadow, slanted against a tree as though he didn't have a care in the word. He shifted, a flare of light reflecting off his blade and blinding her. Throwing up her arm, she shielded her eyes, staggering back. The light dimmed, and the arm clutching the blade lowered as the shadow circled the tree, slipping into a halo of warmth.

Rheissa's eyes climbed the distance, and when her gaze fell upon his face, her body went cold. The man's lips continued to move, but the desperate thump of her heart deafened her. It wasn't possible, but there he stood, just as she'd last seen him.

The world teetered on its edge and she stumbled backward, the ground surely about to open beneath her feet and swallow her whole.

She recognized the angular planes of his face, remembered how she used to run the back of her hand down the hardened edge of his jaw, teasing him that one day, he'd break his teeth on such a scowl. He moved again, drawing her gaze to his lips. She could remember the feel of them against hers, and without thought, her fingers ran against her own. Everything was the exact same; the straight nose, the golden eyes caught in the sunlight…

_Alistair..._

Only something _wasn't_ right. The eyebrow she used to thumb in mock appreciation of its crooked arch was split. After all the battles she had Alistair had waged together, never had a single scar marred him. Her gifts of healing were better than that. Not that mattered. He was the man she'd fallen in love with, and she could feel it once again, her excitement thrumming down to her toes.

"Are you done staring, _witch?_" he snarled as he pushed off the tree.

Rheissa startled, her heart leaping into her throat. That was the _second _time she'd been called such, but hearing the insult from his lips was far worse. Never had he spoken to her with such contempt, and tears pluck at her eyes.

A second shadow curved next around the tree, and a third, their weapons brandished with confidence. It was these ones she couldn't turn away from now. Three faces stared back—three faces she'd watched as they'd faded into death, two of which whose pyres had reached into the very skies themselves. _Ghosts_, that was all she could think of. Yet they moved, they breathed, they spoke.

The second to reveal himself was very nearly the twin of the man stalking towards her with his blade clutched expertly in hands she knew to be calloused from years of training. Just as tall, just as broad, only older with a hint of a wrinkle forming in the corners of his mouth. But it was the mangled patch that caught her attention, stretched across his right eye. From beneath she could see the spires of scars, gleaming in the noonday sun. An eye lost, to a battle? Sickness?

"I think she likes you, Alistair," the second laughed as freely as the wind, a sound she'd heard every day before he'd died.

"Cast your eyes elsewhere, witch, before I cut them from you."

The second—Alistair's brother, Cailan—circled around him and stood to his right. His regent it seemed, very much as he'd been in life. The third, Duncan, was older, his darkly wrinkled face staring at her without any amusement or contempt. He positioned himself to Alistair's left—the place of his mentor—his fingers brushing against his stubble before turning those opaque eyes down on her. A myriad of expression and emotions, none of which she found particularly comforting. Mostly because they were _supposed_ to be dead.

_Maker's breath_, where had that mirror brought her? Was this The Beyond? Had she died? That couldn't be right—Alistair would have known her then. This had to be someplace entirely different. She'd no idea where the mirror had taken her, but she loathed it even more for the look of recalcitrance Alistair fed her, her heart cracking under the strength of it. So many months spent in sorrow and agony, pining for a man that had sacrificed his life for her, and this was how she was requited? Oh, Flemeth had a sick sense of humor that not even the queen could touch upon.

The three men formed a tight band around her, and her eyes dropped to the triumvirate of blades pointed at her. Having always stood with them, she'd never given thought as to how it would feel to have _these_ three men bearing down on her with singular intent. Each was massive in his own right, muscled and intimidating. She crept backward, her steps laden as though treading through quicksand.

"No last words, mage?" Alistair growled.

"Alistair—" his name fell from her lips in a plea, and he jerked back with a hiss as though she'd burned him.

The scar that bisected his brow and vanished into the folds of his eye tightened as his face knotted. "Do not speak my name."

There'd been a time where she might have cracked a joke in an attempt to disarm the terse situation, but the words fell mute on her lips.

"What happened to you?" she whispered more to herself, though all three heard her question.

She was met with a wealth of responses. Cailan's laugh ruffled her hair, he was so close. Duncan's lips pressed into a firm line, his natural stoicness taking hold. And Alistair's already enraged face darkened like the night.

She recognized their individual pauses—the calm before the storm. For a moment, she was terrified, her heart thumping madly, her fingers scrambling for purchase against the empty air at her back. And then she _remembered_. She was Rheissa Amell, Warden Commander of Ferelden. She was the Hero of Ferelden, mage of Kinloch Hold. What were three men compared to that?

In Anders' care, she'd learned some new spells the circle had never bothered to teach her, and these were the ones she turned to without thought. But it was also the memory of sparring with Alistair that she drew upon. All she could hope was that he fought the same. It would be... refreshing to find something familiar about him.

Three blades sliced at the air, each cutting their own path. It was only the sacrifice of dropping onto her back that saved her from the simultaneous attack. While the three of them together were frightening, it was Alistair she focused on. Not simply fighting him, though she knew that would be challenge enough on her own, but bringing no harm to him. The scar was a pained reminder that he was alive and well here, and she wanted to keep it as such.

Her hands arced out and she conjured what Anders thoroughly enjoyed calling Winter's Hand. Frost surrounded their feet, quickly creeping up Duncan and Cailan until they stood encased in ice. Their blades hovered precariously close to her face, two icicles of death hanging just above her nose.

Releasing a relieved breath, she pushed up from the ground and dove between Alistair's legs before straightening with_ Spellweaver _drawn.

Many-a-time, Alistair had demanded she be trained in blades. He'd believed it an absolutely necessity for her to understand how templars fought and to combat them. She'd faced many in her days, but this was the first time her blade would be tested against the man who had gifted her with _Spellweaver_.

His eyes regarded the lightning spitting from the metal, as though weary of it. It was only her will that kept it contained, and she knew to keep it as such. In her world, he'd always donned heavy armor, but here it was little more than thin leathers, and she could spot more weaknesses than she could take the time to count.

Rocking on his heels, his grip shifted against the hilt, eyes raking her length as though marking her vulnerabilities. Clearly, he wasn't as concerned for her wellbeing as she was his, nor keeping his intent secret.

He engaged her, his moments so familiar, she eased into it with grace. They twirled in circles around one another, his blade always drawing near but never close enough to land her. _Spellweaver_, however, found its mark often, Alistair's gasps more akin to hisses. And between each strike, she danced around him, healing the wounds he suffered.

This seemed to incense him further until he pounded the ground in heavy steps, chasing her in quick laps around the clearing. A few successful blows landed successfully—she could feel the ache and burn of the strike, though her armor did much to protect her. Had she been in her robes, she would have lost an arm by now.

She recognized his next attack, his blade held low to the ground as he charged forward. At the very last moment, when she knew he was about to snap his blade up, she dropped, her leg catching the crook of his knee and hooking him to the ground. Her fingers latched in the collar of his jerkin and she rode him down, _Spellweaver's _tip aimed at his throat.

"Cede?" she murmured breathlessly above his neck.

Her gaze leapt to the hollow there, one that she'd had the pleasure of tasting, watching as his pulse beat under his skin. Dry-mouthed, she raked her eyes back up to his face, trying not to notice his familiar scent.

Mirth curved her lips; she rather enjoyed the sight of him sprawled beneath her, the sunlight flooding over them. His crazed words and heated glares plagued her, but she also remembered a time before this, and while he was angry, she could also feel an intimate response as his muscles flexed beneath her. Swordplay between them had typically ended in another sparring match of a different sort. A perverse satisfaction filled her as she took in his response. Angry or not, hateful or not, he was still her Ali.

Though, now it wasn't exasperation or fury that she saw in his face, but confusion.

"Are you going to kill me?" he growled from the flat of his back.

Only the hard press of her knees drilling into his wrists kept his sword at bay, but she knew from experience how quickly the tables could turn.

"Now, why would I waste all that energy healing you to kill you now?"

Wrapped up in their little world, she was only distantly aware of encroaching footsteps. Her spell on Duncan and Cailan had worn off minutes ago, yet neither had entered the battle.

"Then—" he demanded in a rough voice. "Mind getting off me?"

She held for a second longer, relishing the feel of his body beneath hers. Never in her wildest dreams had she believed that Alistair could be returned to her But he was, stretched under her as though the past ten months had never happened.

Rising from him, her careful steps led her away from them, all three watching her with wide, disbelieving eyes.

Alistair scrambled to his feet, rubbing at the tender length of neck she'd nearly cut. "_Where_ did you learn to fight like that?" he grumbled, his ears reddening with the question.

Amusement graced her lips. "From you."

The three men fall silent, sharing a glance she could easily interpret.

"You healed him," Duncan finally spoke. "Throughout the fight. Why would you do that? Why didn't you take power from his blood?"

Her jaw tightened, the muscles leaping in anger. "I don't do blood magic."

Alistair stalked forward, his face twisting again. "Rheissa Amell, that's your name, isn't it? You told Cullen," he announced, as though he thought she would deny her name.

"Yes, and?" she asked.

"Not a blood mage, my lily white ass," he spat before marching back to the others. Her eyes flicked up, noting how Duncan and Cailan had gone white at the sound of her name.

"The wife of the magister?" Cailan squawked, suddenly terrified.

Her jaw gaped and her hands lifted in the air, though all three flinched when she did. "I am _no one's _wife," she snapped.

_The magister will be overjoyed to see you alive and well again._

"Look," she stuttered, afraid of the direction this conversation had taken. "Do any of you know about realms?"

Three blank stares—marvelous.

"All right, do you know the name Flemeth? Or anything about the Tevinter mirrors?"

Silence again.

Sighing, she dragged her hand down her face. "What about Morrigan? Do you know _that_ name?"

"_The swamp witch!_" Cailan gasped.

_Wonderful, thanks for making matters worse, Morrigan_.

Hoping for a little assistance, she tried again. "I'm not... from here," she started with, groaning at the sound of her words. Like anyone was going to believe that, it had to be the worst start to a story ever. "I don't even know where _here_ is. In my world, I'm no one's wife and I am _not_ a blood mage. In fact, in my world, we were all companions."

She skimmed past the part of Cailan's and Duncan's death in the first battles, keeping to herself that it was really only Alistair that she'd traveled with. Not that it mattered. From the wryly quirked brows and darkening faces, her words were thrown away with little consideration.

"I do _not_ travel with witches," Alistair snarled before jerking his head toward his brother and mentor. "Let's go."

Groaning loudly, she dropped her head down into her palms. This had to be one of the longest days of her life.

"What are you doing?" Alistair's voice rose, and she lifted her head to find him staring at Duncan.

"I think we should take her with us," Duncan offered.

"What?" Cailan yelped, his eyes snapping to hers. "Have you lost your mind, old man?"

"For what purpose?" Alistair demanded.

A sigh graced Duncan's lips before he paced forward, his narrowed gaze perusing her. "She could have killed you many times over, yet she chose to heal you instead. We are in desperate need of help and this woman seems talented—"

Alistair snorted derisively.

"—we might be able to put her to use."

Rheissa's jaw ground down—she was no one's tool, but if it meant finding the _swamp witch_.. Yes, Alistair was here, but Anders and all those she was responsible for, who knew what had become of them. Torn between both worlds, her teeth raked over her lower lip as she glanced between Alistair and Duncan both.

"Duncan," Alistair growled. "This is madness, no,_ absolutely_ not."

"You will have to hide your magic," Duncan told her, ignoring Alistair's impending tantrum. "I don't want to see a single spark from you if we are to trust you."

The corners of her lips tipped. He was just like the Duncan she remembered. "You haven't even asked me for help yet, or told me with what," she laughed. "So I doubt you are in the position to make demands from me."

"I'm serious," he stated gravely. "The people we are taking you to will not hesitate to burn you."

Her brow hitched and she was about to reject the offer when she caught sight of Alistair perched against the tree, his arms hitched over his chest and his manly lips—pouting. At the sight of that, she did the only she could and that was silence _Spellweaver _and nod.

"Just perfect," the dour man snapped before turning to lead them to their destination, his efforts obvious to keep his distance from her.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

_Weisshaupt Fortress._

Her steps faltered at the sight of the ruins sweeping upward into the gossamer clouds, all gleaming spires and lustrous obelisks. Extravagant arches dissolved into stretched corridors, drawing her gaze. The stone was stiff alabaster rising into pillars and columns, forming the apex watchtower, where they could overlook the land. She'd travelled to Weisshaupt immediately following the Blight. The Grey Wardens were based there, yet she couldn't imagine the one from her reality looking anything like this. While still livable, the Weisshaupt she knew was long on its way to becoming a twin of Ostagar.

Ostagar had been in a state of decline—severely so—for centuries upon centuries, abandoned after the Tevinter collapse during the First Blight. And the latest had only worsened its state of decay. As the last vestige of protection, the armies had mounted their defense there, only to lose everything. They hadn't expected the sizable army that had marched their way, and they'd paid for that miscalculation with many, many lives. But the ruins, they'd fallen long ago. They'd borne witness to countless battles. Thedas' history was soaked in blood, after all. And the ruins were evidence of that.

But these—these were far from ruin, and to be so blessed as to stare up and see Weisshaupt in all her glory was something Rheissa would never forget. Surely, the history of _this_ fortress was different than anything she knew, and she found herself itching to learn a little of her past.

_Weisshaupt_, she mused. Anderfels, in her reality. But as she stood next to the three men, her eyes scoured the land. This was _not_ the Anderfels she knew. Lush grasses and thicket upon thicket of trees surrounding the ruins for added protection. Rolling land dropped away to small water sources, and that was where she paused. _Water_… in the Anderfels.

"Maker's Breath!" she gasped, understanding lighting upon her as she finally understood what she was seeing. Arable land… it was remarkable! Undamaged by the darkspawn.

Three heads snapped toward her, their brows furrowed as they whispered her words.

"_Maker's Breath_," Cailan muttered, shrugging once at Alistair before glancing at Duncan.

Ignorant to their confusion, Rheissa released a bewildered laugh, her fingers rising to cup her mouth as she circled. "Alistair…" she breathed, amazement brightening her mood.

She could only imagine that the Anderfels had once looked like this—before the darkspawn taint had poisoned the country. The sight before her eyes reminded her of home—the shimmering lake just beyond the fortress instead of the basin she remembered; the surrounding coppice of the tallest trees; the cobalt sky alive with flocks of birds.

"Alistair, it's remarkable!" Rheissa fought against the sudden desire to launch herself into the lake. She might have only spent six months at Weisshaupt, suffering through the stifling heat and toxic air, but it had been six months too long. Most of her time had been spent in Alistair's mausoleum as senseless words fell from her lips, all in an attempt to survive the unbearable grief. "How is this possible? The Anderfels are barren! The Blight destroyed it! How did you escape the darkspawn taint?"

She spun on her worn heel, expecting to see her enthusiasm mirrored in their faces. That was information she could take home to Ferelden, to help Lothering and all future cities savaged by the filth. Instead, reality slammed home when she caught sight of Alistair's pinched face and narrowed eyes. With a sharp breath, she clamped her mouth shut, and her eyes fluttered shut before she said something else.

In his presence, it was far too easy to slip in their past ways. But she had to keep in mind that this wasn't _her_ Alistair. And this was not her home, nor was it her Anderfels.

"Continue to speak like that, and they'll immediately accuse you of magic," he lectured.

"Nothing I said has anything to do with magic," she snapped, growing weary of his snide comments. "It's simply the history of where I'm from."

"Right," he scoffed. "Because _you're not from here, you're not the magister's wife_," he accused in falsetto, mocking her voice. "Maybe they believe you," he grunted while jerking his chin toward Cailan and Duncan, "but I know how mages lie."

Affronted, Rheissa's shoulders tensed. Though she would have loved nothing more than to spout a string of insults at him, she deflated at the look of utter contempt that turned down his face. What could she even say to change his mind about her? The entire hike to Weisshaupt had so far been littered with his little comments, purposefully aimed at her. At first, she'd been content to listen, reminding herself that he wasn't the same person. But then, one-by-one, memories had begun to return to her. How he and Morrigan had bickered in the beginning, how they'd resorted to low blows and witty insults—though Alistair's hadn't always fallen on the side of witty. How, even in the beginning of their relationship, there'd been complications. Perhaps this was exactly who Alistair was.

_No_, she gave her head a hard shake before pushing past him to march alongside Duncan and Cailan. No. Alistair had never been downright cruel. Morrigan had brought the worst out of him, needling and prodding him until he'd been forced to retaliate. That wasn't the case here, or at least, she hoped it wasn't.

"Can't believe we're taking the magister's _wife_ into our camp…" he complained.

Rheissa felt her pulse spike, and her heart responded in kind. At her side, her fingers sparked, and though she knew she'd _never_ use her magic against Alistair, she found it more and more challenging to remember _why_.

"Enough, Alistair." Duncan sighed in that same exasperated tone she'd heard from him many times before, especially when dealing with her and Alistair. It was a comfort to find _something_ familiar in this place.

Cailan's fingers cupped the underside of her elbow and he guided her along the path, his head dipped low. Neither of them were deaf to his brother's incensed snarl behind them, or for one brief moment, Rheissa felt a smile curve her lips.

"What are _darkspawn_?" he whispered, his lips almost flush against her ear.

For a brief moment, Rheissa was stunned by his proximity. It'd been painful to watch as Alistair maintained a mountainous distance between them, as though brushing against her would have been catastrophic. Cailan, on the other hand, seemed the opposite of Cullen and Alistair, his curiousity another familiarity. But that was when his question settled in, and she stumbled to a stop, held upright only by the press of his three fingers.

"What are darkspawn?" she repeated, eyes wide.

Her gaze skipped between their three faces, all hard planes. None of them seemed exasperated by Cailan's question. In fact, even Alistair appeared intrigued. He fought in vain to keep it hidden, but she watched as the shadows vanished from his face, as it smoothed into the angular planes that she remembered caressing. Without the permanent scowl twisting his face, he looked almost… pleasant. _There_ was her Alistair.

"You're honestly asking me that?" she sputtered, unable to comprehend the weight of this question.

When it became obvious that this wasn't a joke, her knees started to tremble. This simply wasn't possible. _Everyone_ knew what darkspawn were, and before she could even begin to contemplate answering them, the ground slowly rose up meet her. Lifting her chin, she found all three men staring down on her. The ground was firm beneath her rear, but not dead. Not like her Anderfels.

Her eyes slipped shut and she inhaled a deep breath, attempting to center her thoughts. It was partly as a response to their question, but it was more than that. As a Grey Warden, for three years she'd grown adept at sensing them—at hearing their call and knowing where to find them. Before she could tell them what the darkspawn were, she had her own question that she needed to answer.

She'd already noted when she'd woken that she'd never felt such peace, that her body was quiet and devoid of the incessant humming that came with being able to sense these creatures. She'd been enjoying that reticence; had been a long time since she'd been offered something so precious. But now… she needed to know.

She opened her mind, stretching it outward as she searched… and was met with—

_Nothing_.

No toneless music, no senseless humming, no hissing, no tingling, no harrowing whispers… nothing. Not even from Alistair. He was as silent as the ground beneath her rear. Not a drop of taint within him.

"_Maker's Breath_," she whispered in a rush of air.

This wasn't possible! The lack of taint, the arable land, could it be? Was there truly no darkspawn in this realm?

"Rheissa?" Duncan's voice drifted down her, and just like once before in her life, her chin rose and met his dark stare.

Even now, she could remember another time, another life, similar to this, seated on the hard, cold ground, a fire flickering next to her. She felt… free, and stunned into silence. Only once before had she felt something of the like, and she'd never thought she would again. He'd been her savior in elegant armor, had entered the stone tower that had held her captive, and of all the candidates, had chosen _her_. He'd freed her from the constant vigilance of the templars, from their unseen abuses… Duncan had stared down at her then as well, hardly smiling, just as he was now.

Funny how the world worked. She wasn't a believer of fate, but with all she'd been through in the short time away from the tower, she began to wonder if she was wrong.

"The darkspawn," she choked out in a harsh voice, "are despicable, loathsome creatures that savage families, and destroy everything they touch." She really didn't feel capable to answer this question. What words could capture that terror that went hand-in-hand with those monstrosities? "Creatures that worship the old gods," she continued. "It's said that the first darkspawn were the result of the magisters crossing into the golden city, to usurp the Maker's throne. They tainted it, and were cast out, returned as these twisted, vile beings, changed to forever reflect the evil within."

"So, they're mages," Alistair sneered. "We have those here, in case you didn't notice."

She tamped back a sudden urge to punch him. "No, they're not!" she insisted, darting to her feet with a scowl. As though sensing her thoughts, he feigned back, his hands rising in defense, though she took solace in the fact that his glower faltered.

The thought of being compared to the darkspawn tightened her stomach, even though as a Grey Warden, she was closer than she liked. But to hear someone liken mages to something as base as the darkspawn… her heart thumped against the walls of her chest, her throat constricting with rage.

"Sounds like mages to me," he pressed.

Her jaw set, her teeth grinding as she suffered a deep breath. Again, she was struck with the desire to hit him, or stomp on his foot. _Maker_, she'd even settle for a swift kick to his nether regions.

"Infuriating!" she hissed as she spun away before she followed through with any of those desires. "You are so—do you know what you are?" she raged, whipping back around and prodding at his leather-covered chest with her sparked index finger.

"What?" he demanded, his voice rumbling like thunder.

"You're a blighted templar!" she shrieked, striking out for the one insult that would cause him the most pain.

Except, he laughed—and it wasn't the laugh she remembered. There was little happiness to it, no warmth that once made her feel loved—just a cold, brittle sound, as though he was imitating something he'd heard once before. "That's because I am," he snarled before shouldering past her and stalking toward the fortress.

Fuming, she watched him go, physically trembling. Lightning dotted the ground at her feet, the bolts sparking between her fingers.

"Question?" Cailan murmured, lifting a hand into the air to distract her before she shot a bolt of lightning at Alistair's ass. "Who is the Maker?"

Rheissa wasn't sure how much many more of his questions she could take. Alistair crooked a glance over his shoulder, purposefully avoiding her glare as he grimaced at his brother.

This question was far more startling than the other. Who was the Maker? Was he serious? Where in Andraste's name had Flemeth sent her? Groaning… she slumped against the nearest tree, rubbing at the space between her brows. _Andraste…_ she could guarantee that they wouldn't know that name either.

Slowly, she lowered back down to the previous patch of ground. The world suddenly seemed so bright, the forest blurred. It was hard to take a full breath, her heart pounding steadily in her chest. One ragged breath, and another, and another, as she tried to find her composure.

"Rheissa?" Cailan called.

When the forest stopped spinning, she tipped her head back and took him in. "It would seem…" she started in a low voice before stealing a glance up at the cloudless sky, unsure of what she hoped to find up there, "that we have much to teach one another."

* * *

Honestly, she wasn't sure what to expect upon entering the fortress. When Duncan had first brought her to Ostagar, she'd felt as though she'd been swallowed by a sea of soldiers and mages. The ruins had been bursting at the seams with their numbers, and every day they'd increased.

And in her realm, when she'd first entered Weisshaupt with her companions, ready to lay Alistair to rest, again it had felt cramped. With only two Grey Wardens in all of Ferelden, it had been quite the shock to find the fortress teeming with them. The challenge had been to swallow her anger long enough to speak with them.

Cailan had been in contact with Empress Celene for reinforcements. It would only make sense that Duncan had sent word to Weisshaupt for more wardens. When she'd heard that they'd been turned away at the border, she'd seen red. She'd known it wasn't the warden's fault, but she'd blamed them either way. The Blight was the sole purpose of a Grey Warden's existence—or so she'd been told. To ensure that the darkspawn never again laid siege to the land, with the Anderfels alone proof of what the taint was capable of. An army of Grey Wardens larger than anything she could ever have imagined, and the Blight had been left to the two of them. And not simply two, but two _newly recruited_. She'd spent much time wondering the outcome if they'd been given just a little guidance. Would Alistair have lived? Duncan? Cailan? And those were only three of the countless faces that she saw in her sleep, that haunted her every waking moment.

But now—crossing into the fortress, she expected to be overwhelmed once more by the droves of soldiers. It seemed natural for a fortress to supply the great numbers. But at the sight of a mere couple hundred meandering about within the stone walls, she stopped. Duncan hadn't mentioned what they needed her assistance with, but she had a feeling that this might be the basis of their problem—whatever that problem might have been.

"Will you tell us now?" Cailan was all but bouncing next to her, waiting with bated breath to learn about the Maker.

Rhei found the idea of explaining something as profound as the Maker tiring, and instead turned to Duncan. "So, this is your Weisshaupt."

The corners of his lips turned up, as though he read the subtext. His nod was distant as his eyes travelled over those wandering past. A few stopped, waving and calling out to greet them. Duncan gave them his typical head nod, rarely engaging in conversation.

As for Alistair, he stomped off in a whole other path, and for the first time, Rhei found his absence a relief.

"You've been here before?" Cailan questioned.

"Yes, and no."

The two watched her, unable to disguise their interest. It felt strange to be traveling with Duncan again, even if the circumstances were rather odd. For the short amount of time she'd known him, she'd found his presence calming. Knowing him to be steady and capable, and she'd drawn on that presence often in her days. She'd modeled her behaviors after him, often asking herself what he would have done in certain situations.

Watching him now, she wondered if he would have agreed with the choices she had made. But it was too late to belabor on it.

"Perhaps we should find somewhere a bit more accommodating and speak," he suggested. "Cailan, if you would please fetch your brother back, and remind him that if he isn't well-behaved, he'll be cleaning the kitchen for the next fortnight."

A wicked gleam came to life in Cailan's eyes, but he feigned innocence as he turned to Duncan with mock horror. "You know he won't take kindly to that."

"Just bring him," Duncan sighed before his fingers hitched under Rhei's elbow and led her in a separate direction. "I...apologize for Alistair's behaviour."

Rhei gave a bitter chuckle. "Apologizing to a mage. Bet that doesn't happen often around here."

Duncan shot her a dark glance, one that had her immediately regretting her words.

"He isn't normally so…" His head cocked as he searched for the right word.

"Arrogant? Ignorant? Rude?"

His brow lifted. "Could the same not be said for you? If your story is true, you don't know anything about this world, either. Or the people that live here."

Her cheeks colored and she gazed forward, an honest laugh tumbling from her lips when she caught sight of where he was taking her. An unlit bonfire sat before them, perched in the middle of an opening, surrounded by small logs. Of course he would bring them here, and she was reminded of Ostagar once more.

'Something amusing?" He slid a wary glance her way as though afraid of what he'd just asked.

"Very much so." Her chuckle deepened into a full-throated laugh. "Miles away from home—an entire world it seems—and still, you are as consistent as ever."

His brow lowered, but she caught a quick smile. "Indeed."

She might not have known the man for long, but she'd learned enough. For instance…

She approached one of the small logs, and, crouching low, she reached behind it and withdrew a sinuous blade, holding it out to the light as it shimmered. The blades strapped to his side—while effective—were not his _good_ weapons; the ones he brought out for battle. She ran the pad of her fingers along the edge, finding it in pristine condition and sharp enough that she drew blood. Duncan was always one to keep care of such fine weaponry. For many nights, she'd sat across from him and watched as he'd sharpened, honed, and polished them. It was a habit she'd applied to _Spellweaver_, and it hadn't let her down. But the fact that he'd left them behind suggested that he trusted these people.

Rotating her hand, she turned the dagger over, searching for the engraving that she _knew_ his daggers had. _In War, Victory. In Peace, Vigilance. In Death, Sacrifice_. Personally, she loathed these words—it was what had taken Alistair from her. But Duncan had lived his life by them, even if he hadn't become a warden willingly.

Her fingers ran repeatedly over the blade, only to find them missing. Her heart leapt in her chest, pounding as she realized once more that they knew nothing of the darkspawn. Which meant that the Grey Wardens had never come into existence.

So overwhelming. The world that she knew didn't exist here, and it was difficult to wrap her mind around that.

The crack of a twig lifted her head, and she watched as Cailan approached with a sullen templar following in his wake. Together in the fading sunlight, their hair gleamed, the same shade and near in length as well. She remembered when she'd first met them in Ostagar, but she'd never made the leap that they were brothers. When Alistair revealed that little secret, she'd felt foolish for having missed that. She should have been able to see it, as she did now, watching them argue amongst themselves.

For a moment, her heart stilled in its terrifying race as she realized that Alistair had found his family. The order had been that once for him, and she'd hoped to be the same. But fate always had other plans for people. Neither had known they were heading for tragedy, as opposed to the happy ending they had spent nights fantasizing about.

"He's not a Grey Warden," she whispered when they entered the intimate circle.

Both brothers turned toward her, as did Duncan.

"Do you know what that means? Grey Wardens?"

As one, the three shook their heads, the same muted expressions alight on their faces.

She needed to understand, to know exactly where it was that Flemeth had brought her. Sliding off the log, she leaned against it and drew her legs into her chest, her arms encircling her knees. "Tell me of this place," she ordered, uncaring if she offended one of them. She just wanted the pounding in her head to cease.

Cailan stuttered, and raked a hand through his hair, a motion that was more Alistair than Cailan. It brought a lump to her throat, one that she forced herself to swallow. Now was not the time. Seeing that he was unable to find the right words, she turned to Duncan, trusting that he would have the answers. He always did, but even he seemed as lost as Cailan.

"All right, let's begin with this afternoon," she decided as her eyes slipped closed. "Two mages were chasing Cullen. Why?"

Alistair stepped forward, and with her eyes closed, she braced for the sting of his words. "You should know," he snapped. "Those mages belong to your magister."

She wanted to ignore that. To believe in different realms was one thing—but different realities? One where she was a blood mage? The thought made her stomach churn. There wasn't anything in the world that could convince her to turn to that route. Far too dangerous, evoking demons and summoning forces beyond her understanding.

Once more, she turned to Duncan, her eyes cracking open to pin him with a pleading glance.

"It's what mages do," he spoke, finally choosing to lower next to her with a groan. "It's been this way for just under two thousand years. Feuds like that aren't easily won."

_Two thousand years_… that date sparked something within her, something the instructors in the tower often questioned them on. The creation of the Tevinter Imperium. She murmured the words aloud, and was met with a gentle hum of appreciation.

"Those two are seekers," Duncan continued. "It's their responsibility to locate templars and bring them to Minrathous."

She stored that information away for later, knowing that seekers were something entirely different in her realm. But she needed to stop thinking of matters that way. "To what end?"

Another heavy sigh. "For the same purpose as always. To be questioned. To find the rest of us so that they may finally put to bed this conflict. To torture and kill us. It's the same story throughout the years. Recently, they've returned out men, only to find them…" he shuddered, but forced his eyes upon her, "corrupted."

"Corrupted?" she repeated. "How?"

"Possessed by foul demons.. We hadn't known such a thing was possible."

Rheissa had, and her thoughts immediately strayed to the countless abominations she'd slain in the tower. People she'd considered her friends and family. People forced into the tower, only to be used, to feed the demons… She didn't want to think about that.

"You're a templar?"

"Everyone here is," Cailan responded, his words partially silenced by Alistair's pained grunt.

"Just tell her everything, why don't you?" he snarled. "Did either of you stop to think that she's here to gather intelligence about us to report to her husband?"

Her eyes flashed dangerously as him, and it was only at the last moment that she managed to control herself. Pushing her to the brink, she decided. Perhaps he wanted her to reveal herself as a mage so that the templars ran her through. Unwilling to grant him that, she turned back to Duncan.

"We're all templars here," Duncan confirmed Cailan's words. "An order dedicated to the eradication of the magisters and the blood mages."

The weeping armor—slowly, it began to make sense. A symbol for all the mages believed in and worshipped. "Those seekers were blood mages."

"All mages are blood mages," Alistair growled.

Her fingers curled inward into a fist. Soon, her magic would win out as it usually did when she became emotional. After three deep breaths, she found the strength to speak to him without setting his hair on fire. "All blood mages are mages," she countered, "but not all mages are blood mages."

His eyes crinkled at the corners, his lip curling with disgust. "Great, a walking riddle. Tell your lies elsewhere."

Rheissa pushed to her feet, so tired of his infuriating ways. "Maybe you should leave, Alistair. If you don't intend to be of any help…"

Challenge filled his eyes and he stepped flush with her, his hands falling to the hilts of his blades.

Before either of them could speak, Duncan's hand appeared, shoving Alistair back. "_Enough_, Alistair. Just be quiet and let us answer her questions."

Though Alistair moved away, he never took his eyes away from her. Maker, but she couldn't remember him ever being this aggravating. Unwilling to back down, she held his stare, her hand resting on her hip next to _Spellweaver_.

"The Maker doesn't exist in this place," she spoke, still holding his glare.

"Perhaps somewhere," Duncan muttered, shrugging. "I won't pretend that I know everything about this world. But I've never heard of such a… being?" he asked, and she nodded.

Things were slowly beginning to fall into place. "The Tevinters have always been in power," she surmised. The implications behind this were massive. If the darkspawn didn't exist, it suggested that the magisters never crossed into the Golden City. "Do they worship the old gods?"

Duncan gave a slow nod. "Always have."

So, the place Flemeth had sent her was one where magic reigned above all; blood magic no less. With no Andraste to spread the word of the Maker, it seemed a logical leap that the Chantry didn't exist. Mages were never collared or hidden away in towers. And the templars, it seemed, were nothing more than a mild nuisance.

"How did you learn to be a templar?" she asked. The Chantry had always been the one to train them, teach them how to restrain rebel mages. Without that…

"How to be one?" Cailan responded, frowning. "There wasn't any learning. You simply are, or you aren't."

Rheissa turned to him, her head tilted. "I don't understand. Are you born with the ability to smite?"

A newfound silence crept among them.

"Smite, you know… smite a mage?" she repeated.

"I don't know this word," Duncan offered.

Rhei's eyes widened as she took in the few hundred milling about. "None of you know how to smite? Then what _do_ you do?"

"We kill them." A softer voice rose behind Rhei. "That's what we do."

Rhei turned toward the voice, and found herself staring into a rather childlike face. Her hair was cropped short though mussed as though she'd only just woken. And much like Alistair and Cailan, there was a scar running the length of her face—temple to jaw. It was quite haggard and seemed fresh. The healer within Rhei itched to be set free, to put to bed the pain this woman had to be suffering. Garish stitches puckered her face, and when she fed Rhei a grimace, it pulled on the stitched skin.

"Rheissa Amell, Marian Hawke," Duncan introduced them. "Another of our templars."

Rhei knew she should be welcoming and shake the woman's hand, but something held her at bay—the woman's cold stare in her icy blue eyes, or perhaps the scowl darkening her young face.

"You and Alistair must be close," Rhei ribbed, hoping to lighten the mood. When no one laughed, she cleared her throat. "You know… the twin glares?"

Silence.

Feeling awkward, Rhei grimaced and dropped her eyes. She suspected she wasn't going to win any popularity contests here.

"Everyone calls me Hawke," she stated. Just as quickly, she moved around Rhei and forgot her. "Cailan, Alistair. It's good to see you two back. We were starting to worry with how long you'd been gone."

"Did Cullen make it back safely?" Alistair asked, bluntly ignoring Rhei

Hawke nodded before coming to a stop before them. The way she held Alistair's attention, Rhei wondered if there was something between them. Until Alistair stepped to the side and moved closer to Duncan.

"I'll… uh… just make sure that he's all right."

Hawke's shoulders drooped, her sigh barely audible as Alistair practically fled. For a moment, Rheissa wanted to leap in the air with joy. _There_ he was! Her chaste Alistair, all red-faced when a woman he was acquainted with showed interest. Sure, it was below the many, _many_ layers of bitterness and anger, but seeing it warmed her heart. She could remember their first days together, when he'd been too shy to meet her gaze.

"So, how do you kill the mages?" Rhei finally asked, a touch rejuvenated by what she'd just seen. "Without the skills to do so?"

"Clearly we have the _skills_," Hawke snapped, pivoting on her heel and affixing her glare back on Rhei. "If we didn't, do you think we'd still be here?"

If this Hawke thought she was intimidating, she had another thing coming to her. Rheissa had faced abominations, demons, werewolves, darkspawn, the walking dead… what was a woman's glare compared to that? Especially when she was armed with one of her own.

Quirking a corner of her lip, Rhei cocked a hip and asked, "And what skills would those be?"

Hawke loosed a blade from her scabbard and the tip of the sword was hovering at Rhei's throat before she could even think to breath. The woman was quick, Rhei could give her that much. But it would only take a fraction of magic and she'd have the woman twitching in a blubbery pile on her back.

"I find the pointy end to be the dangerous one," Hawke challenged.

Rhei's eyes tapered. It wasn't possible that Hawke knew Rhei was a mage. Could it be that she disliked all visitors? Or was this reproach reserved specifically for her. Rhei teased herself by assuming that she was special, that Hawke was probably a kind-hearted woman.

Releasing a heavy breath, Rheissa fed Hawke bored eyes, her fingers hardly twitching at her sides. She could see the dip to Hawke's form, suggesting exactly where she planned to strike, if necessary. Clumsy, miscalculated movements that would likely get her killed. It had become a touch clearer what it was Duncan wanted from her. These people weren't soldiers, just little boys and girls playing at it. And it was likely why their numbers were so low.

Marian Hawke sneered, yet her blade didn't waver. Nor did Cailan or Duncan interfere. A test, it seemed.

Resolved, Rhei struck quicker than any of them could follow. With flattened palms, she pressed them against either side of the blade and drove the pummel back, smashing it into Hawke's face.

Rhei felt a hint of pity for the moment the moment Hawke's head snapped back and she dropped in a boneless heap. Though, a touch of respect formed when Hawke didn't cry out or curse. Instead, she turned watering eyes up to Rhei, her hands cupping her nose even as blood seeped between her fingers.

"I find both ends to be the dangerous one." Then she spun on her heel toward Duncan, keeping Hawke in her peripheral. "Tell me why you've brought me here."

Both watched Cailan dropped next to Hawke, his face pinched as he fought not to laugh at her misery.

"I think you've just demonstrated my reasons," Duncan said. "While Marian is correct, we have been fighting the magisters for a very long time, every day our numbers dwindle. We need someone with the experience to teach us how to fight such a war. Their magic is powerful."

Yes, she imagined it would be. She'd fought more than one blood mage in her time, and they were often the most harrowing battles of her—and she'd fought an archdemon.

She began pacing, pondering Duncan's words. It wasn't her purpose behind coming here. Flemeth wanted Morrigan, and while part of her knew Anders and Crunch needed her, so did these people here. She knew she wouldn't be able to live with herself if she turned and walked away, abandoning them to this miserable fate.

And to herself, she admitted that she found this world intriguing—as one might find a demon. Quite dangerous, with an intoxicating air about it. No Maker, no darkspawn, no Grey Wardens; it was everything she'd dreamed. For the past three years, she'd only known these things. But here, a world where Tevinter reigned—their blood magic consuming the entire world, hunting templars for spot—it sickened it. How could she leave these people knowing what was in store for them? And, perhaps by helping them, they would help her find Morrigan. Cailan certainly seemed to know who she was. Regardless of the conflict happening here, Rhei knew she had to keep true to Flemeth as well. That witch was the very last enemy she wanted.

When she turned back to face them, her eyes shifted back to Alistair who was crossing toward them. His hand was rubbing the back of his neck, his anxious eyes darting to Hawke and then Cailan and though silently pleading for help.

Even though he wasn't the man she remembered, she had to admit that she was still curious about him. Would she have felt this need to remain if he weren't there? Though his words were infuriating, she'd seen proof already that the Alistair she loved exists in that cantankerous body somewhere. Perhaps while helping them, she could help him overcome this debilitating hatred.

"I'll stay," she finally agreed, pumping Duncan's hand. "You could certainly use my help."


End file.
